The happiest day of his life
by I'm Nova
Summary: Learning always helps. When a quite miserable Sherlock was forced to learn yoga for a case, the last thing he expected was for it to accidentally lead to complete happiness someday.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing_

 _The happiest day of his life_

If someone had told Sherlock years earlier that not only would he start practicing yoga, but he would also be forever grateful that he learned such a discipline, they would have been laughed out of the room. Breathing was boring. Gymnastics were useless unless they could be repurposed to deal with criminals. Controlled breathing, what basically amounted to stretching, and – worst of all – a final goal of stopping thought, or at least the snappish, nonstop internal commentary? The detective would have shuddered at the thought. It sounded exceedingly dull, and if one really wanted to shut down one's brain, Stilnoct or good old morphine were much better choices. Quicker, too.

And then he found himself in Tibet. For a case, obviously. Alone. Which shouldn't have been important – with John insisting on keeping his own career, it wasn't unheard of that the consulting detective would make the trip by himself when a sudden case required his presence abroad. So why should this be different?

It turned out that, despite his logical side railing against it, there was a world of contrast between past cases and this one. A short visit to a crime scene or a suspect, while being well aware that John was waiting for him at home, and would answer his messages if the sleuth was overwhelmed by people's idiocy, was one thing. Going undercover for weeks, after months where he hadn't set foot in Great Britain, with John believing him dead, was quite another.

But needs must when the devil drives. And somehow, Moriarty, despite being dead himself, still managed to drive his actions. Sherlock wasn't a religious man, but the consulting criminal was as close to the traditional definition of Lucifer as he hoped he'd ever meet in his life.

So there he was, identity protected by his hooded robe, chanting mantras, and trying not to go insane from the repetition – that would harm the investigation. This particular monastery added to their more strictly religious practices yoga exercises, too. Sherlock suspected it was one of the reasons the European smugglers had picked this specific one as the perfect dropping point to cover their activities. Even the least spiritual of people could justify the sudden urge to spend some time in a monastery "for the yoga, you know – they teach the original one, and it does wonders for one's health" to any acquaintance unaware of their crimes.

Even acknowledging it as a sensible idea, the detective couldn't help but be frustrated that, if it had to be monks, they couldn't be the ones practicing some form of martial arts. Then again, switching the person holding onto things was the point of the operation. Hoods helped make it as smooth as possible. Martial arts would require a much more freeing attire. You cannot exactly fight when you cannot even see to your sides – though with loose clothes, and some practice you can still contort yourself admirably while keeping complete anonymity.

He fully expected to hate every second of this, the way he'd hated every second of his life since he left John behind, no matter how interesting the case (and this wasn't even that complex). To his surprise, Sherlock discovered that yoga wasn't an overrated gymnastics for the lazy. At least not this kind. Actually, it was…scarily effective, in linking mind and body – no, no, that wasn't right.

Mind had always been simply the reasoning part of him, and that would be nothing. No, if he had to get fancy, despite not being a believer himself, he'd say it linked soul and body. That was the problem. It awakened things that he spent a long time bolting safely behind closed doors until he could think of them without being dangerously distracted. Thankfully, the case was actually simple, and he could solve it and run away before the seemingly innocent training could send him into a full-blown nervous breakdown. That would have been embarrassing.

Bawling on the phone to Mycroft that he missed John and wanted to get home and just…snuggle him on the sofa watching some bad telly. Yeah, that would go over well. And not just because Moriarty's web was still half functioning and there was no way to know what longstanding instructions the madman could have left. If his brother indulged him, if John welcomed him back (a much bigger if) and in the end his blogger was killed because he'd been too weary, in the depths of his soul, to finish the job…Well, drawing and quartering oneself seemed both too complicated to organise and still less than he would have deserved.

Still, there was no reason to delete the exercises once the case was finished. Yoga was popular, after all, and for someone jumping from cover story to cover story, it was just another skill on his resume. Sherlock definitely planned to forget it once he was back home…as well as most of what happened during his time abroad, to be honest.

To his surprise, that didn't happen. If things went like they should have, he would definitely have done. But as it was, John's glaring absence still a wound in his life despite being home (and wasn't it a cruel and unusual punishment for something he's done in an attempt to protect everyone), the detective found out that some poses did help him. After all, he could break apart now – in the privacy of his flat – and anything that helped him avoid taking a dose, and so kept Mycroft off his back, was a good idea. As much as he tried to hide his feelings from everyone, setting aside a time for them to be indulged gave him more control over them during the rest of the day, and some form of catharsis.

Of course, no one was supposed to know about it. But he closed doors so rarely (why bother, inside one's home?) that usually staying in his room was enough to ensure nobody would bother him, as long as the door was shut. But every rule has its exception.

Oddly, his self-proclaimed best friend didn't remark on his…odd pose when he half-fell into his most usual position during a crime scene examination, on John's most unfortunate stag night. Perhaps the small change to it, due to his goal at the time, confused his blogger's brain. If he'd been affected half as badly as the detective was, he wouldn't have been able to notice anything if it smacked him on the head.

John snuck inside 221B the very morning of his wedding. Never having been asked for his key back, it didn't even occur to him that he should have rung the bell. He needed Sherlock – needed him to be his logical self and talk him out of this nonsense. Because no matter how many times he told himself it was a normal groom's reaction, that everyone got cold feet – the closer he was to what should be one of the happiest moments of his life, the more panicked and downright nauseous he became. The consulting detective had worked on organising the event more than Mary and he put together. He'd certainly tell John not to be an idiot and waste all his hard work.

Not finding Sherlock in either the kitchen or the sitting room, John acted honestly without thinking when he opened his best man's bedroom door. The spectacle that welcomed him made his jaw drop. His friend was laying on the floor by the bed, on a white mat. His position was actually quite like the embarrassing one he'd fallen asleep at the crime scene in, but both his arms were stretched in front of him. And he was…whimpering under his breath?

John's knees hit the floor, a hand going to the detective's shoulder. "What's wrong?" he asked, eyes roving over Sherlock.

With a last gasp, the sleuth quieted, curls shaking violently. Nothing was wrong. Well, the only thing wrong in his life was forever out of his reach, or would be in a few hours. Damn. He knew he should have woken earlier. That way, his routine would already be done by now. But today of all days he couldn't seem to put a brake on his unseemly feelings.

"Don't lie to me," the blogger whispered, "please."

"Yoga," Sherlock rasped out. "Just yoga."

"Yeah, somehow I doubt that the crying is part of it, or it would be a lot less popular," John replied, rolling his eyes. Sure, he was an idiot, but not that much of one.

"Not crying," the detective said, not moving yet. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to move now. "This is the Extended Puppy." The same pose was also called the Melting Heart, but his friend had no need to know that. Letting him believe it was some sort of puppyish yipping could maybe save their relationship still. Admitting the truth would destroy that, and him in turn.

"Well, that sounded like a sad puppy. And seriously, if anything is wrong, tell me. I want to help. You know, maybe it's a sign," John said, petting a still sloping back.

"Sign? What sign?" the sleuth said, turning his face to look at him.

"To be honest, I came round because I'm panicking. Like I'm about to make the biggest error of my life. So, you see, if there's an emergency – any sort of emergency – maybe I'm not entirely insane. Maybe I just…deduced that something was wrong and needed fixing first." The blogger laughed weakly at himself. As if. He wasn't smart – not like Sherlock and, according to Mary, not even like her – but if his best friend (and best man) was in pain, the wedding couldn't go on, surely?

Sherlock flopped entirely down to the floor. "Never mind me. You brought me a case. Why do you think that you're about to make an error?"

"Actually, I thought she would leave me. They always did. You know, my girlfriends. And when you were back, I was sure. To be fair, Mary is beautiful, and witty, and more than I deserve – God knows what she saw in me – but her attitude…I cannot even pinpoint what's wrong, but sometimes she just makes my hackles rise. Obviously I should stick with her, because, well, I'm not a catch, and if I chicken out I'm going to die alone and old and yeah, no thanks, but…" John was sure he wasn't making any sense. But his friend was a genius anyway, he'd understand – and tell him he had a point.

"If that is your only reason then please, don't marry her. Please. You don't have to be alone. Not now, not in fifty years... Not ever. I know I left, but I came back – for you. I'm not leaving anymore, I swear. I'll stay and you will stay and we can have fun with cases and we don't need Mary or anyone who doesn't make you a hundred percent happy. This was the point of the whole mess – you being happy. But if you're not going to be, then, stay. If you don't need her lies..." Sherlock blamed yoga for that word vomit. He was already in an 'open your soul and just let everything come forth' mood when John stumbled on him, and after such a revelation, how was he supposed to keep his feelings inside?

"Wait wait wait – her lies? She's lying, and you didn't think to mention it to me?" his blogger blurted out, frowning.

The detective flattened himself further against the floor. "You were happy with her…and you said it wasn't kind, when I told Molly about Jim being gay…"

"Yeah, I did, and he ended up being bloody Moriarty, so thank God she dumped him before things went too far. I still maintain that you could have used more tact, but I wasn't trying to teach you that happiness was supposed to be built on lies. Though I suppose Mary's aren't that destructive…" John replied, ending with a weak laugh.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock huffed, though his voice was soft.

"You…wait, are we speaking _Moriarty_ level of deceit? What is she, a serial killer? Gosh, I'm so happy I came round. This wedding absolutely won't happen…and I might have to bring my gun when I break it to her!" John facepalmed. Of course the one girlfriend he'd found who liked Sherlock was a criminal. For all he knew, _she_ 'd known? his friend was alive and had dated him to get close to the sleuth. It would make more sense than her loving the pathetic wreck he'd been at the time.

"Depends…would you classify an assassin for hire as a serial killer? She certainly has more than three kills under her belt, but not for pleasure. At least not entirely. I'm not completely sure about that," the consulting detective said, with a small shrug.

"An assassin. Of course. And you didn't think to mention this because you thought she made me happy?" John said, his voice rising with each word.

"You gave me a second chance. I could give her one for your sake. It's not like we haven't killed our share of people, too," Sherlock reasoned.

The fuck. No. He didn't get to be logical about this. "Killed people, yeah. The reason makes quite a big difference, though. And the kind of people we killed. I'm not at all like her, you're not at all like her, and if you think so I'll find you a therapist you can't talk circles around, even if it's the last thing I do. Christ, Sherlock. Thank God I've not yet made the worst mistake of my life." John took a breath, and retracing his friend's words and attitude during this conversation, the classic light bulb sparked in his head. "Can I try making a deduction, for once?"

The detective only nodded.

"Okay, so…you didn't say anything because apparently you have a martyr complex bigger than St. Bart's, but. You. Love. Me. Not in the best friend way," the blogger announced, a grin spreading on his lips.

Sherlock's eyes widened in terror. How had he betrayed himself? He was so panicked he almost didn't hear the following words.

"Which is brilliant, because I don't have to pretend not to be in love with you anymore, either. Why do you think none of my relationships lasted – well, when they weren't criminals with obvious hidden agendas, at least? I was so obvious I seriously thought you knew, in fact." John knew enough about self-doubt to not wonder why the world's only consulting detective hadn't deduced him years ago. Feelings always got in the way.

There was no reaction.

"Sooo…unless I'm wrong as usual, maybe you would like to kiss me, and then we can put your flexibility to some use?" John concluded. He had the other's arse pointed at him often enough. He would not ignore it anymore. (Okay, maybe at crime scenes. Maybe.)

John found himself completely wrapped up by Sherlock, who suddenly seemed to have been genetically crossed with an octopus – or at least it felt like that – and kissed senseless. Happiest day of his life, indeed.


	2. About translation

Sorry, this is not an actual addition to the story, but I can be dumb and had no idea how to do this otherwise.

I got a 'guest' review from the lovely Arina, who asked permission to translate this in Russian. Now, I tried looking up 'Arina' as a pen name here, but none came up that had previously written in Russian, and I thought spamming all the Arina-something with a PM giving permission for something they for the most part never asked would be awkward.

So I'm just saying it here: yes, please! Da! (That's about the only Russian word I know, sorry ^^'''). You would make so happy if you translated this story. I hope you'll let me know when it's done so I can advertise it. And all the best wishes for your study of English!


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